


the moon was rising in your eyes

by sapphfics



Series: let the right one in [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Lesbian Margaery Tyrell, Lesbian Sansa Stark, Vampire Margaery Tyrell, Werewolf Sansa Stark, that should be a tag...why is it not a tag ?, werestarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphfics/pseuds/sapphfics
Summary: "You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton." Sansa almost smiles as she pictures ripping out his guts. "Sleep well."Beside her, Margaery’s grin shows off all of her gleaming fangs.





	the moon was rising in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday rose!

Sansa is only ten years old the first time her mother tells her about the change, of how the wolf's blood has run through the Stark's veins for far longer than all the years of winter combined.

Honestly, Sansa just assumes it’s some kind of joke she doesn’t quite understand - even though her mother isn’t smiling - and she soon forgets the conversation entirely. Across from her, Arya stabs her knife into the table and Sansa wonders if her sister wishes she had claws.

She stops laughing the first time she turns. She's eleven then, when someone beats up her little brother, Bran, and anyone who hurts her family doesn’t get to live. She won't have people hurting those she loves. Her body contorts painfully and she isn't thinking of her mother's warnings, or the woods, or of wolves, or of anything at all. All she can think is how nice it would feel to rip the man's throat out, to take revenge in the way Bran can't.

She wakes up in the woods at dawn, half frozen in the snow, with a fur coat on her shoulders and a pile of clothes beside her. Jon is waiting for her, perched in a tree like a lost bird. She's surprised the branches haven't broken yet.

She sits up, running her tongue across her teeth, checking for blood. "Jon, did I - did I -"

"No," He cuts her off, and she suddenly remembers how to breathe. "I chased you into the woods before you could do anything."

"Oh," Sansa says. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," Jon assures her. "It's what your real brothers would have done, I'm sure."

"You may be a bastard," Sansa says. "But we still share blood. What you did, that was almost brave as Robb." 

It's the only time Sansa's ever seen Jon smile at Winterfell. His teeth are nowhere near as sharp as hers and it's nice. She knows that he has a chance of living a normal life, of being as happy as you can be in their world. "I'm not like you. I just like my meat raw."

"It's probably for the best." Sansa says. "You are still just as fast, anyway."

“No, not quite.” Jon doesn't tell her how exactly he gained such keen survival instincts. She doesn't need to know. “On a lighter note, you should really join a foot race, you’d almost certainly win.”

"Come on," She says. "Let's go home."

//

Sansa looks Joffery, at his glowing halo of hair and clear blue eyes, and thinks she’s finally found someone who will love her, a real life Prince from one of her storybooks. She thinks she’s in love.

She’s so very wrong.

//

Even as her father's head rolls onto the platform, Sansa hasn't stopped screaming. 

 _I may be a wolf_ , she thinks, _but he is far worse._

King’s Landing may be nothing more than a pretty cage, but a caged wolf still grows.

False King Joffery would do well to remember that.

//

Despite herself, Sansa stands. She is staring into the eyes of her father’s severed head but she will not allow herself to cry in front of him, to give him the satisfaction of knowing he succeeding in taming the shrew of the North.

"I’ll tell you what: I’m going to give you a present.” Joffery’s smugness is almost as sickening as the sight before her. He thinks she’s a caged bird, a toy for him to do as he wishes. “After I raise my armies and kill your traitor brother, I’m going to give you his head as well.”

Sansa can practically hear his sneer and she wants nothing more than to spill his blood all over the ugly white stone floors.

"Or maybe I'll give him yours." She meets his eyes.

He does nothing.

Coward.

//

She knows she shouldn't get attached, but Margaery's presence feels like the kind of relief Sansa's imagines those who have lived through Winter felt upon seeing the sun again. Like temporary peace. 

Margaery will marry the monster, and she can do nothing to stop it. Sansa hasn’t felt so useless since the day Joffery cut off her father’s head.

She prays for a way to save her. If her gods will have truly abandoned her, they will at least let her save Margaery.

"You would be happy at Highgarden, I know it," Margaery says with such certainty it almost makes Sansa want to cry. "You and I could run through the woods for days."

Sansa wants nothing more.

Sansa keeps the rose Margaery gave her until it wilts.

//

Sansa doesn’t plan the run away; she’s made peace with the likelyhood of her death in this wretched place long ago.

But when opportunity arises, Sansa takes it.

She is so very hungry. 

//

The first time Margaery Tyrell dies, she hasn’t even passed her twenty-first nameday.

The sun rises high that day, the heat choking her. She’s always hated summer, longs for the winter air to push the stifling heat away. She supposes she should feel lucky to see the sun again, and not in dungeons so dark that when she awoke within she thought she had gone blind. 

Of all things, Margaery’s last thought is of Winterfell, and of Sansa, as the Sept explodes.

//

It’s her grandmother, Olenna, who brings her back to life, paying for the service of a woman with hair the colour of a starless sky.

“You, my dear,” the woman says. “will not age a day.”

She throws Margaery a corpse as if it were a toy for a dog. Margaery gets her fangs and the woman smiles down at her. “Drink up. He jumped from the palace window, he did not want his life." 

Margaery doesn't refuse and disgusts herself as the blood runs down her chin. 

After the first time, she manages to find sustenance on the blood of animals her brother hunts, but it’s never quite enough.

At night, the man’s dead eyes haunt her dreams.

//

Margaery makes her journey north.

Winterfell is everything Margaery imagined and more.

But seeing Sansa smile as she makes her entrance, though, is even better.

//

"Me being betrothed to Joffery makes perfect sense," Sansa remarks. "I mean, I am everything a big bad wolf could want." She rolls her eyes.

"Please," Margaery scoffs. "At best, he was a rat."

To her surprise, Sansa lets out a genuine laugh for the first time in months.

//

"You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton." Sansa almost smiles as she pictures ripping out his guts. "Sleep well."

Beside her, Margaery’s grin shows off all of her gleaming fangs.

//

“Why do your teeth do that?” Sansa asks, sitting on Margaery’s bed. “Sorry, that was stupid but -”

“You are not stupid,” Margaery tells her. “It is a perfectly reasonable question.”

Margaery explains as best she can. Sansa seems more relieved than scared, to Margaery’s surprise.

“Winter is here,” Sansa says. “The sun is rarer still. You’ll be safe with m - with us, in the North.”

“I always felt safe with you.” Margaery admits. “You, a wolf in a den of lions. There’s something poetic about that.”

“I’m -” Sansa seems stunned. “I am glad you felt that way. You - you made me happier than you could ever imagine.”

“Sansa, I love you,” Margaery whispers and the firelight shines in her eyes. “I think I always have.”

“Margaery, I -” Sansa says. “I love you too.”

Surprisingly, it’s Sansa who kisses her first, but Margaery doesn’t mind one bit.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought? :0


End file.
